“So long as you stick to facts, we’ve got a good defense,” was his view. “They’ll kick. Of course they’ll kick. Let ’em. In time they’ll come to see that they’re really kicking against the facts, not against The Guardian. Just now our German friends are pretty excited and touchy and nervous. If you could give ’em a little more show on the editorial page, while this Russian business is on, it’d help.” Kick the German-Americans certainly did, by pen and Voice. No less a person than Robert Wanser, who had maintained a mere bowing acquaintance with Jeremy since the Cultural Language Bill episode, took it upon himself to voice a protest to General Manager Galpin. “Why print this Russian claptrap at all?” he asked. “All the papers are carrying it,” answered Galpin. “Not so much of it, and not so prominently as The Guardian.” “We’re giving it what it’s worth as news, just as we give the German advances in the West.” “Everybody knows that it isn’t news. It is British fabrications, put on the tables to fool--er--influenceable newspapers.” “Influenceable, eh?” said Galpin, annoyed. “Everybody knows, do they? You prove it to us, and we’ll print it, all right.” “You are making a mistake,” pronounced the banker severely. “For a newspaper to take up the British side is very suspicious.” “Bunk! The Guardian’s been square, and you know it. But we’re not going to stand for being censored by a lot of organized letter-writers.” “A(c)h, censored!” The banker’s guttural almost emerged upon the troubled surface of speech. “The censoring is inside your editorial office, if anywhere. You refuse to publish our letters--” “‘Our’? Have you been writing us letters?” “I have sent you letters.” Mr. Wanser’s face became red. “Funny! I don’t recall any. Sign ’em?” “They were signed,” returned the other, with an effort at loftiness. “With what name?” demanded Galpin bluntly. “I am not here to be cross-examined by you.” “You started this. And now you want to duck it. Nothing doing! You let out what we’ve suspected; that a lot of those letters are machine-made, and sent in signed with fake names or with real names stuck on as a blind for some committee. That don’t go, in The Guardian. We’ve had too much stuff put over on us.” The banker’s dignity dissolved in wrath. “Don’t you get fresh with me, young man. I guess you and your boss, too, are going to learn something one of these days! Going out of your way to insult the best citizens in the State every time your dirty, pro-English paper--” “Oh, you make me sick!” said Galpin, and marched away, leaving Wanser brandishing a denunciatory fist at nothing.